


if we could only rewind

by groundopenwide



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, OT5 Friendship, it's mainly about zayn coming to terms with his situation, the ziall is kind of a side thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Zayn is stoic as he sits in the wheelchair they’ve provided him, staring down at his fingers as though he doesn’t even recognize them. And in many ways, he doesn’t—these hands aren’t his. This <b>life</b> isn’t his. It’s the product of some other Zayn in some far off, distant universe that he doesn’t recognize at all.</i>
</p><p>Or: Zayn wakes up from a six-month coma to a life that's far different from the one he remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if we could only rewind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beingothrwrldly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingothrwrldly/gifts).



> oh my gosh, okay. to beingothrwrldly, who asked for amnesia!fic: i really, really hope you like this. i was so honored when i found out you were my recipient and i know this isn't as ot5-y as you may have wanted, but i hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> some general stuff: i chose this prompt before zayn actually left the band, at which point i just decided to tweak my plans a bit in order to (sort of) match up with canon. still, anything past april is obviously fictional. also, perrie doesn't exist in this universe. double also, i am not a doctor so i don't actually know how amnesia works. roll with it, yeah?
> 
> finally, i offer up so many thanks to isabelle for the beta. SO MANY THANKS.
> 
> title taken from _talk_ by kodaline.

When Zayn wakes up, there’s a tube lining the inside of his throat. The plastic fills his mouth and esophagus entirely, and his body seizes up at the realization. 

He panics. 

His hands claw at the mask that’s fitted over his face until his eyes water, and his lungs are rapidly expanding and contracting, aching beneath his ribcage. It’s difficult to keep his eyes open between the sharp ache in his temple and the soreness of his eyelids, but he attempts it anyway, struggling to get a meager grasp on his surroundings. 

White walls and white sheets and machines, so many machines. Zayn’s chest heaves, and he tries to call out around the tube in his mouth but is unable to inhale his own air. He’s on the verge of completely hyperventilating when someone finally walks in—a nurse, it’s obviously a nurse and he’s obviously in a _hospital._ Her eyes widen when she spots him.

“Oh, dear,” she says. 

If Zayn were more lucid, he’d send her a death glare. As it is, he just collapses against pillows that _aren’t even his_ and continues to thrash around until a button is pressed somewhere at his bedside, pushing him over the brink into unconsciousness once more.

*

When he wakes for the second time, there are voices speaking quietly around him. He forces his eyes open, thankfully without as much trouble as the first time, though his head is still pounding incessantly. The first person he sees is Doniya, clutching at his mother’s arm with tears in her eyes as they speak to a doctor.

Zayn’s heart clenches, and he tries to croak out her name, the sound hardly audible. Still, three heads whip around in his direction, and Zayn blinks, decides to try again.

“Doniya,” he manages this time, and his sister’s hand flies to her mouth, the moisture finally escaping her eyes and carving a path down her cheeks.

“Zayn,” she murmurs, dropping onto her knees at his bedside. “I can’t believe it. _”_

With shaky fingers, she latches onto his hand and squeezes, her grip abnormally tight. Zayn can’t muster up much in return, but he hangs on as firmly as he can, even though the pressure is a bit uncomfortable on his unused muscles.

“I’m okay,” Zayn says.

Doniya sniffs, smiling up at him in that knowing way only she’s perfected. “Hardly _._ You’ve had us worried for months now.”  

“Months?”

The question seems to draw his mum towards him, her hand falling to Doniya’s shoulder as she glances down at him with tired eyes. Zayn wants nothing more than to reach for her, but with one hand already occupied, he can’t gather the energy to raise the other one. Instead, he puts everything he has into smiling, forcing his lips up with as much sincerity as he can. 

“Mum,” he whispers, and she gives him a watery smile in return, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

“Oh, Zayn, sweetheart,” she says, scratching gently at his scalp. “We’re so glad you’re okay. So, so glad.”

Zayn closes his eyes when the light becomes too much and he can’t bear to gaze at his mum’s weary expression any longer. “How long, mum?” he repeats softly. 

He cracks his eyes open again as she purses her lips, fingers stilling at the back of his head. It looks as though it physically pains her to speak, her throat working as she swallows. 

“Six months, sunshine,” she eventually answers. “You’ve been out for six months.”

Doniya squeezes his hand tighter at the reminder, and Zayn tries to squeeze back even as his insides twist. Six months is a long time. Six months is ages in the timeline that is Zayn’s life, and he’s already mulling over all of the things he’s missed, what’s happened while he’s been out and what happened to put him out in the first place—

“Zayn, son, take a deep breath,” comes the doctor’s voice, and Zayn tries to do as he says, gulping oxygen into his lungs. “I know this a lot for you, but we’re just going to take it one step at a time, alright?” 

Zayn nods stiltedly but says nothing.

The doctor comes around to the opposite side of the bed, clipboard in hand. He pulls up a chair that’s situated near the window and watches Zayn with kind eyes, an understanding smile on his face. “We’ll start at the beginning. Do you know why you’re here?”

Zayn shakes his head, unable to hold onto even the most vague memory of what could have left him in his current state. “I haven’t got a clue.”

“That’s fine,” says the doctor, scribbling something onto his clipboard. “Can you at least tell me the last thing you remember?”

“I—“ Zayn begins, and then stops. He closes his eyes and tries to sweep aside the pain in his temples until he can access something, _anything_. Sure enough, a long moment later, there’s an image—it’s fuzzy, but it’s definitely there. He’s on stage somewhere, and he pushes his brain harder, digging around for a city or a country or some sort of clue.  

“We were on tour?” he says without opening his eyes. His voice forms around the words like a question, like even he isn’t sure of his own thoughts. “I think we were in—” and there it is, the flash of a dot on a roadmap, lighting up like a Christmas tree. “California. It was Niall’s birthday in Pasadena…” 

He trails off as soon as he glances at his mum and sister, both of whom are staring at him like he’s lost his mind. 

“Are you sure that’s the last thing you’ve got?” the doctor presses, and Zayn nods slowly, suddenly terrified that this isn’t the answer they’ve been searching for. 

“That’s good for now, Zayn. You should rest.” The doctor climbs to his feet, tucking his clipboard under his arm. 

Zayn grows frantic. 

“Wait, that’s all?” he asks in disbelief. His gaze flits back and forth between his mum and Doniya, their anxious expressions leaving a sour taste in his mouth. “What happened to me? Have I—is there something I’ve forgotten?” 

“I think it’s best if you speak with your family,” the doctor tips his head in acknowledgement, a strained smile on his face. “You’ll be just fine, Zayn. I’ll be back in a few hours to run some tests, and then you’ll be home in no time.”

He bids the three of them farewell, and Zayn immediately looks to his mum as the door closes, eyes wide and uncertain.

“Mum,” he says carefully. “Something’s wrong. Please just tell me what’s going on.”

Doniya makes a quiet sound beside him, and when he looks down at her, she’s crying again. Zayn’s heart swells up into his throat, and he’s tired and frustrated and hurting, just wants someone to tell him the _truth._  

“You weren’t on tour, baby,” his mum finally tells him, cautious. “You were here in London. Shahid was driving, and the two of you—there was an accident. He was fine, but you caught the brunt of the crash, I’m afraid.”

“But—” There are so many questions swirling around in Zayn’s mind, one after the other, piling up and up and up and up until he can hardly make sense of what’s being said to him. “What was I doing here? Why wasn’t I with the boys?” 

His mum shakes her head, swipes beneath her eyes with trembling fingers in an effort to steady herself. It’s Doniya who eventually speaks up, her voice hoarse and apologetic.

“You left One Direction over a year ago. _”_  

The white walls of the hospital room fall away until there’s nothing. Zayn’s stomach lurches and he swears he sees spots, has to grab onto the railing of his hospital bed for support. It can’t be true. He would never—

“Zayn,” his mum’s soft voice brings him back. She touches his cheek, though he barely feels it. “I’m sorry this is happening. We’re going to get through this, I promise.”

“But…” Zayn’s throat closes up, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “I left you. I left them. How could I do that, mum?” 

His mum shushes him, thumb brushing over his jaw in a soothing gesture. “Everything will come in time. Get some rest, love, and try to worry about it later.” 

Zayn wants to protest. He wants to jump out of bed and demand an explanation—from his mum, from his sister, from the version of himself that _he evidently can’t remember_ —but his mind is exhausted and so is his body, and it’s not long before he’s dropping off into sleep. His last thought is of being on that stage in Pasadena with his four brothers, feeling as though he’s on top of the world. 

*

The next morning, the doctor runs through the same line of questioning. _What’s the last thing you remember? Do you know why you’re here?_ He asks for the current year, the names of his distant relatives, and even though Zayn has a few more answers now, most of them haven’t come from his own mind, which is more terrifying than anything.  

He can’t stop thinking about Doniya’s words: _you left One Direction over a year ago_. They leave a stale taste in his mouth, and he wants to lash out, scream and cry and, above all, beg to see his boys, but—  

Apparently that isn’t an option anymore. 

By the end of the day, they've decided that he’s well enough to be discharged from the hospital, though he has a check-in appointment scheduled for a few weeks time to assess his— _memory loss._ Zayn is stoic as he sits in the wheelchair they’ve provided him, staring down at his fingers as though he doesn’t even recognize them. And in many ways, he doesn’t—these hands aren’t his. This _life_ isn’t his. It’s the product of some other Zayn in some far off, distant universe that he doesn’t recognize at all. 

The doctor is talking, but Zayn isn’t listening, clenching his hands into fists and releasing them, over and over again. Tighten, release, tighten, release. He closes his eyes, inhales a deep breath to try and ignore the sharp press of his seemingly constant headache.

There’s a gentle touch to his shoulder then, and when he looks up, his father is suddenly there, offering him a muted smile. He doesn’t say anything, but his sharp gaze is enough to have Zayn’s frustration evaporating and replaced by a soft longing. It’s the same longing he’s experienced all his life, and it’s something familiar—a longing for his father’s love and approval.A distant part of him wonders if other-Zayn has done things to lose his father’s trust in him, too.

He goes back to Bradford with his family, both of his parents and Doniya insisting that he’s in no shape to be living on his own. There’s no use in putting up a fight. Zayn is silent as he presses his aching forehead to the car window, watching the rolling hills and cities pass in a detached blur.

Safaa and Waliyha provide a welcome distraction—they immediately leap on him after his mum’s picked them up from school, showering him in hugs and excited words.

“Missed you,” Safaa mumbles into the collar of his t-shirt, and Zayn just squeezes her tighter, pressing his face into her hair and inhaling her thankfully familiar scent. 

“I won’t leave like that again,” he promises. Safaa smiles at that, and _god,_ she looks so much older. There’s a prick at the back of Zayn’s eyelids and he blinks, tries to quell the tears that are suddenly threatening to escape. It’s just a reminder of how much he’s missed—of how many important events he might never remember.

His mum stuffs him with her cooking that night, and Zayn forces the bad thoughts out of his head, tries to enjoy being at home with his family. That had always been the worst thing about touring—the months of being away from his sisters and his parents and the scent of spices wafting in from the kitchen. He’d reveled in the short breaks they were sometimes given, but those had never been enough. Fame ripped him away from his family at seventeen, and it had never really gotten any easier, even as the years passed.

So Zayn stays. He sleeps in the guest room (hasn’t had his own since he got his own flat) and takes the girls to school and helps his mum with the cooking. More importantly, he diligently takes his pain meds twice each day, once in the morning and once at night. His memory doesn’t come back, but he doesn’t ask his family anything, either. Instead, he uses home as a barrier between him and the Zayn-that-once-was, avoiding his cellphone and laptop and anything that might tempt him to type his name into Google and find out the truth.

*

The peace lasts nearly three weeks. Zayn has successfully managed to ignore his mum’s sad looks, the unseen notifications on his phone, all of it, but when he wakes up on a Thursday morning, it’s to the news from his mum that he’s got a visitor waiting downstairs.

Zayn makes little effort to hurry as he climbs out of bed, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes once he’s on his feet. He comes to a stop in front of the mirror behind his door and just stares for a long moment, sucking in a deep breath. His hair is far too long, falling into his eyes and curling around his ears, and he’s a got a week-old beard scattered over his jaw, untouched. There’s a scar just above his ear as well, healed but still faintly noticeable thanks to its pinkness, another reminder of the accident and what it’s done to the inside of his head.

But there’s not much he can do now, so he throws on an old batman t-shirt over his joggers and pads slowly down the stairs.

There are voices coming from the kitchen, too quiet to make out. Zayn follows the sound until he’s standing in the doorway. His mum is waiting for the kettle by the stove, her eyes brighter than they’ve been in weeks as she laughs at something—or some _one,_ rather. 

A sound escapes from Zayn’s throat, and it’s a strangled, nonsensical one. He tries again. “Liam?”

Liam immediately turns and smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners like they always have. “Surprise?”

There’s a moment where Zayn thinks he must be imagining this—Liam in his kitchen, grin clear as day, not a single sign that Zayn’s been in a coma for months, nor that they probably hadn’t seen each other for months before that. It’s too normal to feel real, and Zayn doesn’t know what to do. He stands there, perplexed and disbelieving, until Liam’s expression dims a little.

“I mean—if you want me to go—” he starts.

The offer spurs Zayn into motion. He stumbles over his own feet to cross the kitchen, but then he’s there and throwing his arms around Liam’s neck like a drowning man clinging to a buoy. Liam hugs back just as fiercely, and he smells like Zayn remembers, cologne and cigarette smoke and something inherently boyish, so _Liam_ that Zayn practically chokes on it.

“You’re here,” Zayn breathes.

Liam squeezes Zayn tighter, palms pressed to the knobs of his spine, and only pulls away when the kettle begins to whistle on the stove.

“Tea?” he asks softly, and Zayn nods. His mum’s disappeared to god knows where, but Zayn is grateful, doesn’t know if her added presence would make this unexpected reunion better or worse.

Liam putters around the kitchen like he has so many times before, fixing Zayn’s tea just the way he likes it, and it’s not long before they’re seated across from each other at the kitchen table. Zayn sips from his mug, silent, waiting for Liam to make the first move. The air around them is heavy with the weight of a million things left unsaid– a million things that Zayn can’t remember.

“Sorry it’s taken me awhile to come up,” Liam says finally, spoon clinking against glass as he stirs sugar into his tea. “It’s been pretty crazy lately, what with…well, wedding plans. Sophia and I are getting married, you know?”

And of all the news Liam could drop on him, this is the least surprising. “That’s great, Li,” he says, sincere. “Congrats.”

“Thanks.” Liam pauses. “I saved you an invitation, was planning to send it if you…when you woke up.”

Zayn swallows and stares down at the murky brown of his tea. “Good thing I did then, huh?”

Neither of them says anything else for a while, not until the liquid in Zayn’s mug has gone cold. “How are you, really?” Liam asks, gentle.

There’s a second where Zayn contemplates lying— _fine, I’m coping—_ but this is Liam. “I don’t know,” he says without looking up. “No one’s really asked me that, to be honest.”

Liam’s gaze is a pressing weight, but Zayn keeps his head down as he studies his jagged fingernails. “Your mum didn’t…tell me much, on the phone. Just that you were awake and recovering, might appreciate a familiar face.”

That stings. Zayn bites the inside of his cheek, the _unsure of what pre-coma him did_ side of his brain wondering if Liam would have come at all without his mum’s suggestion.

“I don’t feel like…me,” he says, after the silence has gone on for too long. “Like…there’s this Zayn, the one sitting in front of you, but then there’s this whole other Zayn that I know nothing about. He did things and said things that I can’t even _think_ of, and that scares the shit out of me.”

He eventually lifts his head to find Liam staring down at the tabletop, forehead wrinkling into a series of lines that Zayn wants to smooth away with his fingertips. 

“I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that everything was fine,” Liam eventually says, “because it wasn’t. But…I never hated you, Zayn. Before you find out anything, you should know that. I don’t understand why you did what you did, but I never, ever hated you for it.”

Zayn smiles wryly and picks at the cuticle of his thumb. “That doesn’t sound ominous.”

“It’s probably best if you learn the truth for yourself,” Liam shrugs in response.

Frowning, Zayn pushes his tea away so he can clasp his hands together on the table in front of him. “You don’t hate me, but…the others, do they?”

Something in Liam’s face shutters closed and he looks away. It’s an answer in and of itself. 

Zayn nods and clears his throat. “Right. I suppose…I mean, I hate me too, right now, and I hardly even know anything. It would make sense, I guess.”

Liam’s expression is pained as he reaches across the table to touch Zayn’s arm, a half-hearted attempt at reassurance. “Zayn—”

“It’s fine,” Zayn says sharply. He pushes his chair away from the table and staggers to his feet. “Like I said, I probably deserve it. You may not hate me, but I’m sure it’s not the easiest thing in the world to be around me after whatever I did, so maybe you should just…”

_Leave._ Liam’s eyes are soft, pitying, and Zayn can’t look at him. He turns away to dump their practically untouched teacups in the sink, hears Liam slowly stand up behind him. There’s a moment where he wonders if Liam is going to try to placate him, but it passes quickly. Instead, there’s the sound of a coat zipping up and Liam’s footsteps on the tile floor. His hand drops down onto Zayn’s shoulder a beat later, and Zayn flinches, can’t help it.

“Say bye to Trisha for me, yeah?” he says quietly. 

Zayn nods stiltedly, thinking that’ll be the end of it, until Liam speaks up again. 

“I’m sorry about all of this, I really am. I…I just hope you know that everyone deserves a second chance. No matter what.”

The front door closes a few seconds later, and Zayn stands there with his hands clenched around the edge of the sink until he can’t feel his fingers anymore.

*

At 2:17 the following morning, he powers up his laptop for the first time since being home. In the blackness of the guest room, he types the words _zayn malik leaves one direction_ into Google.

Most of the results are dated for a little over a year ago—March of 2015. Zayn clicks on the first link and swallows around the lump in his throat as it loads.

_The hearts of millions of young fans around the world broke on Wednesday when the official One Direction Facebook page posted an announcement that member_ **_Zayn Malik,_ ** _22, would be taking his leave after nearly five years with the band._

He skims over the article, which doesn’t say much about his reasons for leaving, then goes back to open up the next link.

**_Zayn Malik leaves 1D to go solo?_**

_Within hours of the announcement that_ **_Zayn Malik,_ ** _22, would be leaving One Direction, rumors started to fly that the international pop sensation was departing from the group in order to pursue his own solo career._

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and presses his fingers to his temples.

Most of the search results are the same after that, and Zayn gives up after the sixth article. He clears out the second half of the search bar so that it now only reads _zayn malik._

The first result is a wikipedia page—his _own_ wikipedia page. The entry is divided into two sections: _One Direction (2010-2015)_ and _Solo Career (2015-present)._

His stomach rolls just from looking at the words, and he scrolls past to the bottom of the page. Sure enough, it’s right there in the discography: two singles listed under his individual name, the first released only three months after he’d left the band. The second is dated for later in the year, in early October, right before his accident.

The laptop pinches the edge of his thumb when Zayn slams it shut, and he winces, raising his finger to his mouth to quell the swelling. His stomach is in knots, and he can’t think of anything to do but shove his laptop aside and unlock his phone for the first time in months, the notifications pouring in as soon as he does so.

There are mountains of text messages, mostly from Shahid and a few others that were sent in the weeks after he left the hospital. Zayn ignores all of them and swipes lower, until he reaches the conversations dated from six months ago, some even longer than that. He looks for four certain names in particular, doesn’t come across one any later than August. It’s from Liam; Zayn had wished him a brief _happy birthday._ Liam’s response is a simple _thnx mate !_

Other than that, there’s nothing. His last text from Harry was sent in June, and it appears as though Zayn never responded. Louis’ conversation hasn’t been active since May, and Niall’s has been mute since even earlier, in April. Zayn feels sick. The more he stares at his tiny screen, the more it starts to look like the radio silence is of his own doing—he’d been the one to cut them off, just like that.

It’s Niall’s last text that hits him the hardest, though. He stares down at the little white bubble on his screen, three simple words that seep between his ribs and cut into the deepest recesses of his being. 

_how could you_

It was sent on April 17th, 2015. Zayn minimizes the message and looks at today’s date: it’s May 8th, 2016. He hasn’t spoken to Niall in over a year. 

The realization knocks all of the air from his body.

It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes any sense, from him leaving the band to him eliminating the boys from his life to him releasing his own music. The Zayn he usedto be couldn’t have imagined a life outside of One Direction; even with the insane amounts of stress and the _gogogo_ and the constant pressure and attention, he never would have picked something different. Maybe he could have done with a few more breaks, they all could have, but it was _worth it,_ to make music and spend every day with his four best friends. Zayn wouldn’t have traded it for anything. Nothing could ever, ever compare to how he felt on that stage in Pasadena: full to the brim with adrenaline and happiness. Full to the brim with _love_.

Closing his eyes, Zayn lets the mobile slip from his fingers and hit the floor with a soft _thump._ He then presses his face into his pillow and tries his very hardest not to cry.

*

The sun is rising when Zayn finally abandons his computer in favor of sleep, and this is what he knows:

He left One Direction in March of 2015 under the pretense of wanting a “normal life,” then went and shaved his head, pasted on a smile, and released a solo project in June, only three months later.

Louis and Eleanor split right around the time Zayn left the band, and a month later, the news broke that Louis had acquired his own record label. Liam and Sophia got engaged in July. Harry’s name started to appear in the songwriting credits of more artists as 2015 progressed. Niall caddied at the Masters in April, then vanished into hiding. One Direction sans Zayn reappeared to finish out their fourth tour in June, and the band announced a hiatus for the unforeseeable future in October, exactly one week after a drunk driver clipped the side of Shahid’s car and sent Zayn into a six-month long coma.

Zayn’s eyes are bloodshot when he closes his laptop for the second time. He doesn’t feel any better. If anything, his heart only sits heavier in his chest, a stone-cold fixture in his body that doesn’t seem to beat right anymore. His head is pounding and his limbs are achey as he drags his body under the covers, the clock on his nightstand flashing 6:52 back at him.

_I never hated you._ Liam’s words scuttle across the front of his mind, and Zayn curls his body up as tight as he possibly can, hating himself enough for the both of them.

*

He sleeps through the day and into the night and doesn’t rejoin the living until more than twenty-four hours later, when his mum comes in and demands he get some food in his system. Zayn chews his toast on autopilot, hardly tasting the bread as it slogs down his dry throat. His whole body feels like it’s been hit by a freight train, and all Zayn wants to do is crawl back into bed and pretend that he doesn’t exist. He doesn’t _deserve_ to exist. He’ll go and fall back into a coma, if that’s what it takes.

He’d even laid in bed for another half hour after waking up, staring at Niall’s final text until his vision went fuzzy. _how could you how could you how could you how could you?_

Now, his mum sits across the table from him, biting at her fingernails and watching him like she’s afraid he’ll disappear right into thin air. Zayn drops his head, swallowing the bite of food in his mouth and letting his shoulders droop.

“Did I visit you guys at all? Before the accident, I mean?”

It’s evident that he’s caught his mum off guard, if her wide eyes are anything to go by. She clears her throat and reaches out to brush her fingers against his, but Zayn doesn’t move. “What do you mean, sweetheart? You checked in with us. Of course you did.”

Zayn sighs. “That’s not what I mean, mum.” He forces himself to look up. “I’m not talking about a quick ‘hello’ text. Did I ever come around? Spend time with the girls? Did we FaceTime, y’know, like we used to while I was on tour?”

There’s a moment of silence that lasts too long. “You were busy, love,” his mum finally says, her voice soft. “We understood—”

Zayn starts to shake his head, keeps doing it until he’s dizzy and his whole body is shaking with it. “No, no, no,” he mumbles. His fingers latch onto his hair as he drops his elbows onto the table and hangs his head. _How could I?_ he thinks, followed by _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so fucking sorry._

He doesn’t voice the words aloud, but his shoulders begin to tremble and the air slithers out of his chest until he’s choking on it. He gasps out a quiet sob, then another one, until they’re growing and wracking his whole body. This isn’t his life. Everything feels so beyond his control, so far out of his reach, and he can’t even get close enough to brush his fingers against what’s happening. He’s an observer looking through the glass, pressing his palm against the cold surface and screaming without any hope of being heard. It’s terrifying—terrifying and frustrating and _exhausting._

His sobs continue until he can’t feel them anymore. He’s so out of it that he doesn’t even realize his mum’s come to sit by him, her arms wrapped tight around his torso as she pulls him into her chest and lets him cry into her shoulder. Her hands are warm and gentle, smoothing across his shoulders and through his hair. She murmurs hushed reassurances that he doesn’t hear, but her voice is still soothing. It envelops him, and he melts into her, allows himself to be comforted for the first time in a long while. 

“Don’t be sorry, Zayn,” his mum whispers. “Don’t regret what’s in the past. The only thing you can do is be better now, understand? You’ve got to work towards the future and focus on who you want to be, not who you were.”

Zayn shudders, his voice coming out raspy. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“But you do,” his mum says, squeezing the back of his neck. “You’ve never once been ashamed to be who you are. Don’t start now.”

*

He gets straight into the shower after that, scrubs down his entire body like he can scrub away the last eighteen months of his life. His beard gets shaved off in its entirety and as he stands in front of the bathroom mirror, electric razor in hand, he decides that he might as well just shave the rest of his hair off, too.

Each swipe of the blades over his scalp leaves him feeling lighter, a bit freer of the person he was. The dark hair collects in the sink, and by the time he’s finished, his head is smooth under his palm. Zayn stares at his unfamiliar reflection and tries on a smile. For once, the lack of familiarity doesn’t sting. Instead, it feels right. He doesn’t look half bad.

He peels off his bed sheets and throws them in the wash, then goes about collecting his things, clothes and phone and toothbrush all shoved into the suitcase his parents keep stored in the guest room closet. By the time he’s done, the room looks much less like the dungeon it’s become over the past few weeks and more like the guest room he remembers, afternoon light spilling in through the open blinds and washing the place anew.

It’s nearing four o’clock when he rolls his suitcase into the living room. Safaa and Waliyha are on the sofa working on homework, their heads lifting when he enters. They both let out a simultaneous gasp.

“You shaved your head _again?”_ Waliyha demands.

Zayn grins, rubbing his fingers over the short bristles atop his scalp. “Yeah, but it looks better this time around, don’t you think?”

Safaa huffs. “I like your long hair.”

“Sorry,” says Zayn, leaning over to press a messy kiss to her head. “Where’s mum?”

“Slaving away in the kitchen, per usual,” his mum calls. A moment later, she appears in the doorway, and her gaze immediately drops to the suitcase at his side. “Going somewhere?”

“I think it’s time for me to get back to London,” he tells her. She narrows her eyes, silently assessing, and Zayn straightens his shoulders.

Seconds pass, and then his mum’s shoulders slump, her expression overtaken by a tiny smile. “Are you sure?” she asks gently.

Zayn nods. “I’ve got to face the music. If not for anyone else, then for myself, at the very least.”

“Will you come visit soon?” Safaa asks hesitantly. Zayn turns back to her, and the uncertainty in her voice is almost enough to have him abandoning his plans. Almost.

“Two weeks. Tops,” he swears. He knows the promise probably doesn’t carry much weight at this point, but he’s determined to make it up to them, prove that he’ll do as he says. He’s not going to miss anymore of his sister’s lives than he already has.

“Do you have your pills?” Waliyha pipes in.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Yes, mum.”

She giggles, and then Zayn wraps both of them up in a hug, tries to memorize how tall they’ve gotten for next time. “Love you, love you,” he tells each of them before they swat him away. “Give Doniya a big kiss for me next time she comes ‘round, alright?”

They make faces at him but agree to do as he says, and Zayn gives them one last smile before heading for his mum.

“I’ll call when my train gets in,” he promises as she tugs him in for a long hug, her grip deadly tight. “And then every day after that. And whenever I just need to talk. You’ll tell dad I’m okay?”

His mum finally lets go of him and nods, cupping his face with tender hands and leaning up to kiss his forehead. “You’re going to be just fine,” she says, smiling. “Be sure to tell the boys hi for me.”

“We’ll see about that,” he answers softly. “Love you.”

Zayn tugs his cap down low and places his sunglasses on his face, and then he’s out the door and in the cab that’s waiting to take him to the station.

*

The first thing he does once he arrives is clean his flat.

He starts in the kitchen and works from there, scrubbing every available surface and dusting each corner until the place no longer resembles a musty attic that hasn’t been touched in months. There are photos and awards on shelves that he doesn’t recognize, but he just skips over them and moves onto wiping down the next thing. In the bathroom, he throws out expired products and hair gels he no longer needs. The bedroom windows are all thrown open so that the fresh evening air gets blown in, and he changes the bed covers to some that are less stale and more ready to be slept in. He keeps a shopping list of items on his phone as he goes: _milk, weetabix, shampoo, paracetamol._

It’s nearly midnight once he finishes, and he falls into his bed feeling pleasantly exhausted, making a mental note to go out to the shops in the morning.

*

He buys too much food for one person and stuffs it all into the refrigerator before he texts Liam, _i’m the biggest arsehole on the face of the planet, can we talk? for real this time?_

The reply comes instantly: _cake tasting w sophtooday, r u back in london?_

_yeah,_ Zayn types, then adds, _want to come over tonight? dinner maybe?_

It takes longer this time, but eventually Liam agrees. _sophs gonna hang w friends. she says hi btw. hows 7??_

At seven o’clock exactly, he rings Liam up and waits anxiously behind the door for his knock. Zayn hasn’t really thought about what he’s going to say past _hey, I’m really fucking sorry,_ but he figures that’s as a good a start as any. Hopefully the conversation will progress from there.

The knock finally comes, and Zayn takes a deep breath. He swings the door open, and Liam grins.

“Nice hair,” he greets.

Zayn’s palms are sweating as he replies, “I’m really sorry for being such a dickhead. Come in?”

Liam just laughs, stepping through the door and letting it fall shut behind him. He stands in front of Zayn with his crinkly eyes and wide-open grin, and one of the wrinkled edges of Zayn’s heart smooths out at the sight.

“I’m glad you texted me,” Liam says. “Also, you're forgiven. I’m just glad to have you back.”

_Me, too,_ Zayn thinks. “Did you pick a cake?” he asks.

They end up on the sofa, Liam filling him in on all the minute details of the wedding and everything else he’s been up to lately. They don’t actually eat dinner, but Zayn’s got enough crisps to feed a small army, so they munch on those while Liam talks about how Nicola’s first baby is on the way and how he’s sold his flat to buy some big fancy house on the outskirts of the city for him and Sophia and Loki.

Zayn listens and laughs and sinks into how simple it all is. This is the easiest battle he’s got to fight, he knows that much, but it still feels like an accomplishment when Liam grins at him and says _I missed you, mate._ Zayn grins back and tells him, _punch me next time I’m such a twat,_ and Liam nods, promises that he will.

It’s fairly early when Liam decides to head out, but Zayn doesn’t worry that his departure will be the last time they see each other for awhile; Liam tells him to call whenever, mentions that he should come out and see the new house sometime soon. Zayn agrees readily, and then Liam’s got him locked in a firm embrace, one that has any remaining tension slipping out of Zayn’s body.

“Thanks for coming over,” he says softly.

Liam cups the back of his head and plants a kiss right above Zayn’s ear, where his scar stands out against the backdrop of his shaven hair. “Thanks for havin’ me,” he responds, pulling back. “I’ll text you about coming to see mine, yeah? I know Loki probably misses you.”

Zayn’s eyes are suspiciously wet as he smiles back, letting out a choked laugh. “That fuckin’ dog. Fuck. Yeah, he probably does. I’ll see you soon?”

Liam’s answering grin is blinding. He squeezes Zayn’s shoulder gently and mumbles a soft little _love you_ before waving and ducking out the door.

*

Zayn waits a couple of days before he tries to get in contact with Harry. Liam had mentioned that he’s been in LA the majority of the time since tour ended, so Zayn decides that the best plan of action is a simple text. He pores over the message for too long before he actually sends it.

_hiya harry (Haz_ had felt too intimate, and Zayn doesn’t really think they’re on that level of closeness anymore). _i know it’s been awhile cuz i was a major twat…then went and got my head cracked open. think i owe you a pretty big apology. maybe we can facetime soon?? know you’re prob really busy. just let me know.it’s totally up to you._

It’s good. Not too forthcoming, but open enough that the ball’s in Harry’s court now. All Zayn can do from here is wait and see what Harry’s choice turns out to be.

In the meantime, he keeps himself occupied. He’s got plenty of telly to catch up on, plus daily calls to his mum and texts with Liam. He’s been doing his best to get out for a run each afternoon as well in efforts to burn off the weight he’s gained from being bedridden for six months, and it helps, not just physically but to clear his head as well.

Overall, Zayn is getting better. He’s even spoken to Shahid over the phone, asked him briefly about the accident and then just left it at that. Zayn knows he should attempt to reconcile their friendship, but Shahid had been part of other-Zayn’s life, not his. And that’s okay. The acceptance has been slow-going, but he’s getting there, and someday soon he thinks he could really be okay with the person he was and who that person is becoming.

Six weeks out of his coma, he’s due to return back to the hospital for a check-in. They run all sorts of tests on his brain and ask him millions of questions, mostly ones like _have you regained any memories_ and _how are you dealing with everything?_ It’s not as disheartening as he’d thought it would be to admit that his one-and-a-half year gap is still perfectly intact, not even when the doctor looks at him with that same sympathy he had six weeks ago. Zayn smiles and shrugs, quotes Winston Churchill in all his twentieth century glory: _if you’re going through hell, keep going, right?_

The doctor smiles wryly, then lowers the dosage on his pain meds and sends him on his way.

When he gets back to his flat that afternoon, he finds a series of messages on his phone from Harry, of all people. Zayn wonders if maybe the universe is telling him something.

_zayn malik, is it really you????_

_i legitimately thought i dreamed up this text for the first week it sat in my inbox_

_but, in all seriousness: facetime would be quite nice. how does 10 AM my time tomorrow work for you?_

Zayn laughs at the first couple of messages, can’t help it. It’s such a Harry thing to do—play off his silence with some stupidly endearing explanation that wouldn’t pass if it were coming from anyone else. It fills Zayn with a faint glimmer of hope.

_perfect,_ he replies. _talk to you then!_

A minute later, Harry sends him a mere _xx,_ but it’s enough for Zayn’s heart to grow three sizes bigger.

*

The first thing Zayn notices is that Harry finally seems to have his hair under control. It’s just as long as Zayn remembers, but it’s cleaner and tamer, the raggedy headscarf look long gone.

Harry gives him a little wave, and Zayn waves hesitantly back. “Hi,” he says softly.

“‘lo,” Harry says back, hint of a smile poking at his mouth. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah. Doing pretty well, actually.” Zayn clears his throat, feeling awkward. “Um. How’re you?”

“I’ve been keeping myself busy. There’s always something to do in Los Angeles, you know? It’s so crazy. I feel like I never even have the time to come home,” Harry laughs. He leans forward a little, face filling up more of the screen. “Have you abandoned the long hair club _again,_ Zayn? I can’t believe this.”

It’s enough to break the ice—Zayn snorts, instinctively running a hand over his scalp. “Sorry to disappoint, but I was looking too much like an impoverished Aladdin for my liking.”

“Lies, all lies. You always pulled it off,” Harry tells him.

Zayn smiles, shaking his head. “Harry, I’m—”

“—sorry. Yeah, I’d imagine so,” Harry finishes for him. His tone is indiscernible, and Zayn waits with bated breath. “I was quite pissed at first, but like—when you got hurt, that kind of overshadowed everything else, you know?”

Zayn exhales. “Yeah.”

“I’m happy you’re alright. That’s all that matters, in the end.” Harry runs his fingers through his hair, and it falls back into messy curls at the side of his head. “How bad was it?”

Zayn frowns to himself, bites at the skin of his cuticles out of habit. “…pretty bad,” he says quietly. “I’m not sure what you already know. I don’t actually…remember anything past the Rose Bowl, but. It’s not awful. Better with each day, for sure.”

Harry whistles, low. “Rose Bowl. That’s…” he stops. “That’s. God, I don’t even know what to say, mate. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well.” Zayn shrugs. “Now you do. It’s not an excuse, not by any means, but…now I’m just trying to make up for lost time, I guess you could say.”

“Good on you,” Harry says honestly. “After all, it’s not about the mistakes you make—it’s how you make up for them that counts. Where’s that from again, the Bible?”

“ _Gilmore Girls,_ maybe,” Zayn grins. “That or _Peppa Pig._ ”

“Must be it,” Harry agrees seriously. There’s a moment where they both just stare at each other through their respective screens, until the silence is broken by Zayn’s laugh.

“Will you make it back for Liam’s wedding, y’think?”

Harry scoffs. “Obviously. I’m not an expatriate!”

“Just checking. Wanna make sure it’s not another year before I see you in the flesh and all that.”

“I’ll wear my nicest shoes for you,” Harry flutters his eyelashes, and it looks even more ridiculous thanks to the poor Internet connection. Zayn smiles to himself, feeling warm down to his toes.

“You’d better,” he waggles his finger at the camera, and Harry laughs. More serious, he adds, “Thanks for talking to me, Haz. I really appreciate it.”

Harry _tuts_ at him, brushing the statement off with a wave of his hand. “Thanks, schmanks. You’re my brother, Zayn, I’ll always have time for you.”

_Brother._ Zayn’s stomach lurches, and he tries to laugh through the stinging in his eyes, swiping his fingers across the moisture gathering in the corners. “Ugh,” he chokes out. “I’m going before I turn into a complete girl. Thanks a lot, you wanker.”

Harry blows two kisses into the camera, one with each hand. “Anytime, babe. Hopefully your mascara’s waterproof. Love you!”

The screen goes black and Zayn sniffs, grumbling to himself as he scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve. _Waterproof mascara._ Idiot.

*

A few nights later, Zayn’s sitting on his sofa with _Avengers: Age of Ultron_ blasting from the telly when his eyes catch on a photo that’s sitting on the bookshelf.

He hasn’t spent much time going through his more recent possessions. Most of them are minuscule, the majority of them reminders of events that he doesn’t remember and doesn’t particularly care to remember, either. Still, he pauses the movie and crosses the room to get a better look, the wooden frame feeling bulky and awkward as he picks it up in his hands.

It’s the [five of them](http://40.media.tumblr.com/e59d9f52300a1cc42e800a0471981c19/tumblr_njuziziluP1t6muyyo8_1280.jpg) at what looks like a meet and greet. They’re not even posing for the camera, all of them distracted by something else—Liam and Louis are off interacting to one side, Harry is busy signing his autograph for a fan, and Niall and Zayn are—well. They’re in the very center, both of them wearing blinding grins. Niall is flushed bright red with laughter, and when Zayn stares down at himself, all he sees is own smile: pure and bright and unadulterated. He looks completely at ease. Comfortable in his own skin. _Happy._

_How could you?_ Niall’s last words to him flash in his mind, short and cutting to the core.

Where did everything go so wrong?

The frame makes a clattering sound as Zayn places it roughly back on the bookshelf, his fingers trembling. He doesn’t touch the photo again after that.

*

Two weeks and three very long pep-talks from Liam later, Zayn goes to visit Louis.

He doesn’t bother with a text. That would only make things more difficult. Out of everyone, Louis is the most stubborn—he fights fiercely, but he also loves even more fiercely. This is what Zayn is banking on as the doorman lets him into the building and he rides the lift up to Louis’ flat.

The wooden door looks darker and more daunting than he remembers, and he stands in front of it for a long while trying to gather the nerve to knock.

_It’s Louis,_ Zayn tells himself. _You have to do this._

He lifts his fist and raps on the door three times in quick succession before taking a shaky step back. There’s some sort of commotion inside and then Louis’ high voice calls, _just a sec!_

Footsteps come _thump-thumping_ towards him, and Zayn sucks in a sharp breath as the lock turns and the door is flung open.

Louis stands there, one arm resting on the doorframe and the other gripping the edge of the door itself. His eyes widen comically when they fall on Zayn, who stares right back, shifting nervously on the balls of his feet.

“Um—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish stumbling over his words, since a sharp right hook straight to Zayn’s jaw suddenly interrupts them.

The pain erupts from the point of contact and Zayn grunts, clutching at the side of his face with his hands. He staggers back from the force of the hit and has to lean against the wall opposite Louis’ door in order to steady himself. The metallic taste of blood is hot and abrupt inside his mouth.

“You fucking _cunt,_ ” Louis hisses. He storms across the small distance between them, grabbing roughly onto the collar of Zayn’s jumper. Sure that he’s about to be punched again, Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and waits.

And then he’s being yanked forward into Louis’ flat, the door thundering shut behind them. Louis tugs him along none too gently until they’ve reached the kitchen, where he shoves Zayn into the counter and turns away to rummage around in the freezer.

Zayn collapses against the cupboards and touches his fingers to the freshly forming bruise on his face. It appears as though Louis is (rather violently) wrapping a package of frozen carrots in a towel, mumbling furious curses under his breath. The only words Zayn manages to catch are along the lines of _cunt_ and _fuck_ and _wanker,_ over and over again.

A moment later, Louis shoves the makeshift icepack into Zayn’s hands with a scowl. “For the record, I would much rather punch you again, but that probably wouldn’t be good for your head trauma.”

The cold makes Zayn wince, but he holds the carrots in place and rolls his tongue around inside his swollen cheek. “Probably not,” he agrees. 

The words are garbled, and Zayn takes a second afterwards to maneuver around Louis and spit out a mouthful of blood into the sink.

“You’ve gotten soft,” Louis says.

“Six month coma will do that to you.”

Louis falls quiet at that, and when Zayn turns back to him, his hard gaze is focused on the tile wall somewhere behind Zayn’s head. 

“You fucker.” The words come out quieter, but no less steely.

Zayn swallows thickly, and it still tastes slick and coppery. “Basically.”

“I’m so angry,” Louis says, finally making eye contact. “Like, livid.”

“Yeah,” Zayn replies. “You should be, I reckon.”

There’s a moment where Louis purses his lips, and then he laughs, sharp and unforgiving. “You reckon?” He folds his arms over his chest and begins to pace, feet carving a path back and forth across the linoleum floor of the kitchen. “You fucking—you _left_ us, Zayn. You left us and lied to us about why and then weeks later you were back in the studio with fucking Shahid, of all people. Like, what the fuck? Who fucking does that? Who doesn’t have the fucking decency to tell his four best friends the _truth_ after five fucking years together?”

By the time the rant is over, Louis’ chest is heaving. He’s drawn to a stop smack dab in the middle of the kitchen, and all of a sudden, he looks lost. His tense shoulders deflate and all of the fight seems to go out of his body, leaving a broken, wavering shell in its wake.

“And then…I thought you were dead, Zayn. I honestly fucking thought you weren’t going to wake up,” Louis chokes out. “It was just—it was too much. Do you even know how hard it is to look at you right now? How weird it is to think _this is really Zayn, he’s really standing right in front of me?_ ”

Silence

“I—I know,” Zayn manages. Before Louis can bite out another word, he holds up a hand and cuts him off. “And I know you owe me absolutely nothing. I deserved that punch, and I probably deserve a million more. But…” he pauses and closes his eyes, using the ache that’s radiating from his jaw to center himself. “I’m not that person anymore. That sounds like a load of bullshit, I get it, but I’m literally not that person. I don’t remember myself past the Rose Bowl a year and a half ago. It’s not an excuse, but it is the truth.”

Louis drops his head and brushes his fingers against the hem of his t-shirt, a nervous tic that Zayn could spot from kilometers away. “What’re you saying? You’ve got, what—amnesia?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Zayn answers coolly. “That doesn’t erase what I did, though, and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I wish I could give you an explanation, but _I_ don’t even know why I did it. All I know is I’m pissed at myself for letting it happen and I refuse to watch it happen again.”

They both fall silent again, Louis with his hands twisted together and Zayn with a bag of frozen carrots still cupped against the side of his face. The moment draws on and the air grows thicker, but Zayn says nothing. He’s come, he’s given his spiel, and he doesn’t expect anything more. This is where the tightrope he’s been traversing comes to an end and he falls off, whether Louis’ there to catch him or not.

“I can’t tell you it’s okay,” Louis finally says, his voice echoing through the empty kitchen. “I’m not sure it’ll ever be completely okay, but—it’s not awful, either.”

“Yeah,” Zayn mumbles.

He watches as Louis takes a deep breath. 

“Thank you for coming over. I’m glad I got to—hear everything from you, I guess. And I hope you’re doing okay,” he tells Zayn, and it sounds sincere. “I’m not sorry for hitting you, though.”

A laugh gets caught in Zayn’s throat, and he chokes it back down, the unspilt side of his lip rising slightly. “You shouldn’t be. Thanks for the carrots.”

Louis shrugs. “You can go ahead and take them for the road. ‘M not sure why the hell I’ve got frozen carrots, anyway.”

Zayn laughs for real this time, even though every part of his face hurts as he does so. “I’ll, uh…” he clears his throat. “I’ll see you at Liam’s wedding then, yeah?”

There’s a glint of something in Louis’ eyes like his concrete exterior might be about to crack, but it’s gone a second later. Zayn tries to ignore the disappointment that washes over him. “Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

They hover there for a moment longer, and then Zayn turns to make for the door, Louis following a few paces behind. He stops once he’s out in the hallway and looks back to find Louis staring at him, eyes narrowed and mouth pursed.

He blinks out of it when Zayn catches him looking, quickly turning his gaze away. “…I’m sorry about your head,” he says at last. “Hang in there, alright?”

Then he disappears back inside, and Zayn only leaves once the door has clicked softly shut.

*

“There’s this color—” Another piece of card stock is shoved under Zayn’s nose, and he blinks out of his stupor to find Liam hovering over him with his hands full of various paper samples. It’s a sight to be contested, that’s for sure. “—or there’s this one. They look the same to me, but Soph is adamant that they’re not, so which one, d’you think?”

“Um,” Zayn licks his lips and does a quick eenie-meenie in his head. “This one.” He taps the sheet on the left. “What is this for again?”

Liam sighs. “Name cards for the reception tables. I don’t know why we saved it for the last minute, but Sophia was frantic this morning when she remembered so I told her I’d take care of it.”

Zayn snorts and leans forward from his spot on the sofa when Loki wanders over, scratching him gently beneath his chin. “Two weeks, mate. It’s crunch time.”

It was right after Zayn’s talk with Louis that Liam invited him over to check out the new place, and Zayn’s been spending a lot of time there since. Sophia had teased him the other morning that he might as well just move in already, to which Zayn had just smiled and shrugged, telling her, _feel free to kick me out at any time._ She’d immediately shaken her head. _You’re always welcome here, Zayn._

It’s been almost a month since Zayn paid Louis a visit. They haven’t seen each other since, which Zayn had been expecting. He’s still keeping himself busy, anyway, helping Liam out with wedding plans, texting Harry every so often, and the like. He’d been to see his family a couple of weeks back, too, and it had been good, a chance for his mum to see for herself that he really has been doing okay and not just making it up for her benefit over the phone. He’s continued his new routine of running each morning and he’s even thinking about getting some sort of pet, a dog or a cat or something, just so he has company in his flat every day.

As if on cue, Loki lets out a small _yip_ and pushes his nose into Zayn’s thigh. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Zayn rolls his eyes and rubs behind the dog’s ears to quiet him while Liam talks quietly on the phone beside them. 

“I need around 150, I think?” His voice washes over Zayn, who flops onto his back and doesn’t move, not even when Loki starts to lick his hand that’s dangling over the edge of the sofa. “The names should all be on the list I sent you…yes, that’s correct. By Wednesday? Okay, great. Thank you so much.”

Zayn hears Liam toss his phone to the side, and then he’s leaning over the arm of the sofa and covering Zayn’s face with his shadow. “Y’alright?”

“Ngh. Resting,” Zayn grumbles, gently pushing Liam’s face away. “Head hurts a bit.”

“Still?”

“It’s fine, ‘m used to it.”

Liam goes quiet for a moment. “You spoken to Niall yet?” Casual.

Zayn hums noncommittally and throws an arm over his eyes. 

He can feel Liam’s concerned gaze on him, but he ignores it, instead focusing on the steady in and out of his own breathing. “What’s so different about him?” Liam asks quietly.

“…dunno,” Zayn says eventually. “He was the first one I stopped talking to…before. There’s got to be a reason for that, right?”

When he sits up and meets Liam’s gaze, his friend’s got his lip pulled into his mouth, a pensive expression on his face. “I never knew what happened between you two,” he finally admits. “Niall didn’t really say much after you left. He just kind of…shut down, closed in on himself. I don’t even think he went to visit you after the accident.”

“You visited me?” Zayn asks in shock.

Liam’s face takes on an expression that screams _obviously, you idiot._ “Every couple of weeks or so. Lou and I always came together. Harry met up with us sometimes, whenever he could get away from business in LA.”

The news shouldn’t be surprising, but it is. A knot begins to form somewhere in Zayn’s stomach, and he blinks as his eyes grow suddenly wet. “I—I didn’t know.”

“You numpty,” Liam says, fond. He slings his arm around Zayn’s shoulders and pulls him into his side, the gesture warm and steadying. “No matter what you did, we weren’t going to leave you in a time like that. There was no way.”

Zayn swallows past the lump in his throat. “I didn’t—”

“—deserve it?” Liam finishes for him. “We’ve been over this, mate. The past is the past and all that.”

_But Niall,_ Zayn thinks, his heart shattering in his chest. He stares down at his hands as he wrings them together in his lap, once again wishing this wasn’t all such a mystery to him. “I hate this,” he says softly.

“I know.” Liam squeezes him, a small act of reassurance. “But you’ve been doing so well. Better than most people would in your position. You should be proud.”

“I’m trying to be.” Zayn whispers.

Liam’s grip on his shoulders tightens. “That’s what counts,” he says.

*

The next day, Zayn decides it’s time to suck it up and go see Niall.

“It’s ten in the bloody morning, what do you—” Niall’s voice filters through the door, thick and slow like he’s just woken up. Zayn probably could have waited until a bit later in the day, but he hasn’t slept a wink, his body jittery and his heart up in his throat for the past twelve-plus hours.

The door finally cracks open, and Zayn jerks his head up from where he’s been examining his feet. Niall’s sleep-ruffled blonde head pokes out, a frustrated frown on his face. It fades as soon as he realizes who’s standing on his front stoop.

They stare at one another for what feels like hours, until—

“Fuck off,” Niall spits, and the door slams shut.

Whatever little hope Zayn had goes plummeting to the ground. “Niall—”

“Fuck. Off!” The door is thrown open again, and Niall’s expression is dark, fuming. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. _Leave,_ Zayn.”

It’s the angriest Zayn has ever seen him, and Zayn doesn’t even know _why._ Not past the obvious. The thought is heart wrenching, and he swallows roughly, trying to think of something, _anything_ to say that could make Niall listen. 

“You’re not leaving,” Niall says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “I asked you to leave. Please, Zayn, just go.”

And Zayn is about to—he’s honestly about to just give up and walk away, the shreds of his dignity gathered limply in his arms, but something in his chest anchors him in place and forces him to stay. 

It’s then that he detects something in Niall’s voice: _defeat._ It’s so much like Louis had reacted all those weeks ago, yet not similar at all, because this is Niall. Niall, who never failed to put that stupid smile on Zayn’s face. Niall, who all but abandoned Zayn and left him for dead in a hospital bed.

Yesterday, he would have justified it and told himself that he deserved the abandonment. After all, Zayn had abandoned them too, hadn’t he? But now—now, with Niall’s icy stare locked on him, Zayn has reached his breaking point. He’s got to demand answers. He’s sick of not knowing _why._

“You never visited me,” he says.

Niall recoils like he’s been shot. The door is only open wide enough for his body to fill the frame, and he makes a move as if he’s going to shut it again. 

“Niall.” Zayn’s voice is sharp, and Niall freezes. “Tell me why. Tell me why you never came to see me. That’s all I’m asking of you."

The air between them crackles with a tension that Zayn can’t name. It’s nearly suffocating, squeezing them both until their heads are barely above the surface, and he can tell that Niall feels it, too. His face is unreadable, a wall of cement that doesn’t appear to be breakable except for the tiny sliver of _something_ in his eyes.

An eternity later— _finally,_ Zayn can’t _breathe—_ Niall speaks. “You want to know why?” he straightens up from his slouch, voice pitched low. “Why do you fucking _think,_ Zayn?”

_I don’t know,_ Zayn screams internally. _I don’t know because I can’t remember a time when we weren’t so close, it was like we were two parts of the same person. I can’t remember anything and I need you to_ ** _tell me_** _things if you ever want me to be able to make up for what I did._

“Have you talked to Liam?” he asks instead.

“What the hell does Liam have to do with this?” Niall demands. “Look, if you can’t even be straight with me for five seconds then I think—”

“I woke up from my coma thinking it was September 14th, 2014,” Zayn tells him.

Every inch of Niall’s body visibly stills. “What?”

“The last thing I remember is celebrating your birthday onstage in Pasadena,” Zayn continues. “After that, there’s nothing but black. Anything I know now is only because I’ve looked it up or someone’s told me about it.”

Niall’s eyes shift to the side. “You don’t remember any of it.”

“Nothing.”

It’s a tug-of-war, and Zayn can feel himself gaining ground. Niall is looking at the floor now, his chest rising and falling with every long breath he takes. He closes his eyes, then opens them again a beat later.

“I don’t believe this,” he says quietly.

Zayn straightens his back and takes the smallest step forward. “What happened to us, Niall?”

“I—” Niall’s hands are shaking where they grip the edge of the door, his eyes flitting everywhere that isn’t Zayn’s face. After what feels like ages, he says, so quiet that’s it’s hardly audible, “I think you should come inside.”

He opens the door the rest of the way, and then turns on his heel, leaving Zayn to follow along after him. His flat is, for the most part, exactly the same as it was a year and a half ago, give or take a few small belongings. All of their awards are still on the bookshelves, and the kitchen is a mess like it always is, dishes and wrappers and stray packages littered across the island. Niall makes straight toward the living room, and he seats himself in an armchair a few meters from the sofa, leaving Zayn to sit a safe distance away.

They’re both silent for too long. Niall still won’t look at him, which Zayn understands, to a certain extent, but that doesn’t mean it stings any less.

“…I don’t know where to start,” Niall admits, quiet. “It’s been so long.”

Zayn gulps. “I know it’s strange—” _understatement of the century—_ “But. It would mean a lot to me if you could just be completely honest. Good or bad, all of it, right from the beginning.”

Niall’s hands twist together in his lap, and Zayn sees his chest sink in as he blows out a slow breath. “I—fuck. Okay.” A wry smile suddenly appears on his face, and it looks wrong, so unlike the normally sunny grin that Niall is known for. “I kissed you. Right after the California shows, when you and I were in Vegas celebrating my birthday.”

Every thought, every emotion whirling through Zayn’s brain comes to a grinding halt. “You—what?”

He’s suddenly thinking of the photo on his bookshelf back home, the sheer happiness in his expression and the fact that it was _all because of Niall._ The realization comes like a freight train slamming into him, full-force.

“We were both pretty smashed, had just gotten back to the room for the night,” Niall continues. The smile is still there, but it’s shifted into something more self-deprecating, and Zayn hates the sight of it. “I just…grabbed your face and snogged you, right there in the doorway. I was too drunk to worry about you punching me or anything, but I still managed to be surprised when you kissed me back.”

Right now, more than ever since he’s woken from his coma, Zayn’s lack of memory is ripping him apart. _I should be able to remember this,_ he thinks frantically. _Why can’t I remember this?_

Kissing Niall is something he’s sure he could never, ever forget. And he’s angry, absolutely fucking _furious,_ feels betrayed by the universe for it thinking that it could steal something like this away from him, on top of everything else. 

“We hooked up,” Zayn says, and it isn’t a question.

Niall meets his eyes for a split second before looking back at the floor. “Yeah.” The smile drops off his face and is replaced by pursed lips and knit eyebrows. “It wasn’t supposed to become a thing. What’s one hook up between mates, right?” He shakes his head. “Then a couple of weeks later, right before our last show in Florida, _you_ kissed _me.”_

It’s like all the oxygen has been sucked from Zayn’s lungs. Like he’s waking up in that white-washed hospital room all over again, frantic and panicked and confused. Niall leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, and buries his face in his hands. A moment later, his shoulders start to shake, and it takes everything in Zayn’s power not to cross the room and pull Niall into his chest.

“We were so good, Zayn,” Niall’s voice cracks on the last word, and he digs his palms into his eyes, scrubbing at them as though it will erase the truth behind what he’s saying. “We were so good together, and then out of nowhere you left the band and broke my fucking heart.”

What can Zayn say to that? 

There’s nothing. Nothing that could ever make up for this—for making Niall _cry._ For leaving bright, bubbly Niall behind, baffled and broken and grieving. For making Niall think that whatever Zayn did, whatever had happened to him, was _his_ fault. For forgetting him; for forgetting _them._

Of all the things Zayn has imagined up to this point, he never in a million years imagined he could have fucked up this monumentally. _Catastrophically._

A car alarm screeches to life ten stories below, and it jolts Zayn back to the present. Niall’s eyes are wet and swollen, his nose a ruddy, irritated red. When Zayn looks over, the sight pierces through every inch of his being. His heart shrivels up in his chest like a plant without any water, the life dribbling out of it bit by dying bit. 

“I’m—” he licks his dry lips and cringes. He’s what, sorry? 

There comes a point where apologies just aren’t good enough.

“Please don’t say you’re sorry,” Niall begs, his chin beginning to quiver. “That’s too much like—like you’re apologizing for all of it. I’ve got to keep trying to believe it wasn’t a mistake for you.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Zayn says before he can stop himself.

Niall shakes his head. The tears in his eyes slip over the edge, and he wipes them away violently only for more to take their place. “You can’t say that. You don’t _know_ that.”

“Niall—”

“You’re not him!” Niall’s voice bursts out louder than before, distraught. “You won’t ever be him. You were once but you’re not anymore, alright? You’re just not.”

The words are like a knife slicing through him. His chest flaps wide open until he’s bruised and bleeding, his insides on full display for the world to see. 

“I’m still Zayn.”

“But who is that? Who _is_ Zayn, really?” Niall demands. “It’d be great if you could explain him to me, because I’d really like to know.”

There’s a sharp press against the insides of his temples, and Zayn hisses, dropping his head. This is all too much, suddenly. He can’t think beyond the expanding pain in his head.

Niall’s gaze is on him, empty and exhausted.

“I think you should go,” he says finally, much quieter, and Zayn doesn’t protest.

_Who is Zayn, really?_ There was a time when he felt he might be broaching an answer Niall’s question, but evidently he’s much further away from one than he’d previously thought.

*

All of his progress seems diminished. He had been so close to forgiving himself, so close to being proud of the person he’d become, and now Niall has rendered it all null.

There’s only a week until Liam’s wedding, and Zayn tries to shove it all down. He pastes on a smile that verges on maniacal and laughs at the wedding planner’s lame jokes when all he really wants to do is scream and cry.

Liam senses the dilemma but appears to be at a loss, torn between wanting to help Zayn and focusing on his own more immediate issues. It’s the last thing Zayn wants—to drag Liam down on his wedding day, of all things. He tries harder: he signs off on the final floral arrangements and picks up the groomsmen’s tuxedos and chats with Geoff and Karen when they get into town, graciously dancing his way around their questions to do with the amnesia.

Harry flies over when the calendar shows six days to go, just in time for the stag do. He shows up at Liam’s with his sunglasses pulled down over his eyes and his hair gathered back into a bun, both an attempt and a fail to look inconspicuous. Zayn can’t help but crack a genuine smile when he sees him.

“Idiot,” he says fondly. Harry yells something unintelligible and wraps Zayn up in a hug right there in the doorway, even picking him up off the ground like something straight out of a romantic comedy. Zayn punches him in the arm once he’s back properly on his feet, and they squabble like that until Liam comes in from the kitchen with Loki hot on his heels.

“‘Bout time,” Liam says.

Harry scoffs. “I am perfectly punctual, thanks very much, Liam.”

They both smile, then, and the three of them filter back into the kitchen where Andy and a few of Liam’s other mates are gathered around the island, arguing over the latest footy results. Zayn hangs back from the group, choosing instead to lean against the cabinets and observe. Eventually Harry joins him, his hand falling to Zayn’s shoulder and squeezing it gently.

“Good?” he asks.

Zayn shrugs. “Alright.” he pauses. “Or at least trying to be, y’know.”

Harry hums. “Well, it’s good to see you for real this time. I suppose your new hair—or lack thereof—isn’t all that bad in person.”

“Gee, thanks,” Zayn laughs, albeit so quiet it can hardly be considered one. “Meanwhile— _Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!_ ”

“You and Liam, both so rude. What am I going to do once Louis gets here?” Harry complains.

The reminder that Louis _and_ Niall are both going to be in attendance in a matter of an hour is almost too much for Zayn to stomach. He drops his eyes to the floor and shrugs again, the movement stilted. “Dunno. Guess you’re on your own, mate.”

Harry must pick up on his change in demeanor, because his expression softens somewhat, shifting from playful to something slightly more serious. “Hey, it’s going to be alright, yeah? We’re here for Liam, you don’t need to worry about anyone else.”

And god bless Harry, but he’s got no clue, absolutely no clue what’s transpired over the past couple of weeks. Zayn wishes he could take the advice and let himself relax if even for a night, for Liam’s sake, but he’s terrified that having both Niall and probably Louis turning the cold shoulder on him in the same room might break him all over again.

“Zayn. I’ve got your back, okay?” Harry smiles reassuringly. “Promise.”

Nearly an hour has passed by the time Louis shows up, and Niall is still nowhere in sight. Zayn watches as Louis circles the kitchen, exchanging fist bumps and claps on the back with all of Liam’s friends like he’s best mates with all of them. Everything slows down the closer Louis gets to where Zayn is standing with Harry, the moment dragging on through molasses until all too soon, they come face to face.

They size each other up for a long moment (or rather, Louis sizes Zayn up—Zayn mostly cowers back into the cabinets). 

“Hey,” Louis says, only loud enough for Zayn and Harry to hear.

Zayn clears his throat. “Hey. Y’alright?”

Louis nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. I’m—yeah, not too bad.” He scratches at the nape of his neck. “I’m not going to punch you,” he adds, almost like an afterthought.

“Thanks?” 

It’s unbearably awkward, but at least it’s not angry and tense like it had been before, back when Zayn visited Louis at his flat. They watch each other for a few more seconds until Zayn starts shifting anxiously from one foot to the other.

Louis exhales. “It’s good to see you, bro.” He extends a hand curled into the form of a fist, and Zayn stares at with wide eyes as though he’s afraid Louis will change his mind any second and use the fist to bash one of his teeth out.

When it seems like the hand isn’t going anywhere, Zayn swallows past the lump in his throat and carefully nudges it with his own. “You too,” he tells Louis, whose mouth curls up into the hint of a smile before he retracts his hand and shoves it into his pocket.

“Ready to get smashed?” he announces suddenly, a complete 180, and there are various shouts of agreement throughout the room. When Zayn peers sideways at Harry, who’d bore witness to the whole interaction, he finds a blinding grin that screams _I told you so._

Zayn blows out half a breath of relief, knowing that the worst is still yet to come.

*

They pile into the cars that will take them to Funky Buddha, and Niall is still nowhere to be found.

Zayn considers asking Liam but fears that would be far too obvious. Instead, he sits with Harry and some other lads he doesn’t know very well and talks mindlessly with them until they get to their destination. They’re greeted with a round of shots, and then another one. Zayn loses track after that, finds a sofa to sit on against a wall and looks in on things with a sort of senseless detachment. The alcohol sits hot and heavy in his stomach.

They’ve been there for an hour, maybe two, when their private section of the VIP area abruptly bursts into cheers and the lads crowd towards the entrance. It’s Niall—there’s no doubt in Zayn’s mind, but he doesn’t move, merely sips at his gin and tonic while the lights cast a dizzying glow across the ceiling over his head. He can’t drink much after this, the alcohol not a good combination with his still occasional headaches, but he’s already had enough to warm his chest and loosen his limbs.

Still, it’s not even close to enough to prepare him for Niall.

Zayn’s immediately conscious of the moment Niall notices him—after he’s been dragged through the crowd and over to a table a few feet away, a glass thrust into his hand. His eyes lock on Zayn right as he’s raising the shot to his mouth, and the two of them hover there, frozen, dangling together on the precipice.

Niall shuts his eyes and throws the shot back, and the bubble bursts. 

All at once, Zayn feels entirely too sober. He stares down into the ice of his empty glass with a frown and a furrowed brow, contemplating going to fetch another when a body suddenly sidles into his space.

“Hey,” Louis calls over the music. His knee knocks into Zayn’s when he slips onto the sofa and sets his tumbler down on the table in front of them. “Why’re you over here acting like a mopey twat?”

Zayn’s too caught off guard to laugh, so instead he just slumps back into his seat. “You know I was never a huge fan of these things.”

“Bullshit,” Louis snorts. “Remember Japan, the second time around? That was crazy, and you loved every second of it.”

It’s true: Zayn still has photos on his laptop of them in their stupid hats and glasses. “I guess,” he admits.

“I know you, bro, and I know when you’re wallowing,” Louis tells him, matter-of-fact. “Is it Niall?”

Zayn’s breath catches, and he tries not to focus on how casual the _I know you_ had sounded as it fell from Louis’ mouth. “Why’re you playing therapist, shouldn’t you be terrorizing Liam or summat?”

“He’s occupied,” Louis waves the statement off, and granted, Zayn can’t actually see what’s happening on the other side of the room, but he doesn’t particularly want to know, either. “Harry mentioned you were a bit _meh_ earlier so I wanted to check up. I know it’s been awhile, but…”

He trails off, eyes shifting away like maybe he’s afraid he’s overstepped. Zayn leans forward then, his chest tightening with something akin to gratitude. “I appreciate it, Lou,” he says, pausing. “Like…I don’t deserve it, but. Thank you.”

Louis swirls the liquid around in his glass a few times before looking up, his eyes wide and honest. “We’re gonna be okay, Zayn,” he promises. “I know I kind of made it seem otherwise before, but—we’re good. We will be. Don’t sweat it.”

This is _not_ an appropriate time for Zayn to start crying. He clears his throat instead. “I’m really glad,” he says softly, so muffled that the bass nearly drowns it out. Louis smiles at him, though, and Zayn figures that’s one more thing to check off his list.

“So,” Louis pipes up again, setting his glass down so that he can pry Zayn’s own from between his fingers. “Your drink is gone. Time for another one, yeah?”

What the hell? Zayn nods. “I suppose so.”

*

Louis is a terrible influence. Zayn doesn’t know how that tiny fact could have slipped his mind, but now it still stands. He’s got two more empty glasses in front of him and his vision’s a little fuzzy, the colors richer and the music tingling through his limbs as he and Louis hound Harry about some dumb song he’s written for Meghan Trainor.

( _I didn’t pick the tune!_ Harry had protested. _I swear my lyrics weren’t meant to turn into an Olly Murs ripoff, give me a break._ )

They’re all three still laughing and prodding one another when Liam finds them, grinning wide and falling onto the couch at Louis’ side. “Lads!” he calls. “It’s like a little reunion over here, innit? How come I wasn’t invited?”

“You’ve invited yourself, Payno,” Louis says, poking him in the side. “Now get offa me, you git.”

Harry snickers while Zayn just looks between all three of them, assessing. It can’t be the reunion that Liam’s declared it, not without—

“Niall!” Louis shouts suddenly. Zayn’s stomach plummets to his feet, nerves mixing with the alcohol and making him queasy. “Niall, Nialler, get over here, we’re having a little One Direction powwow.”

Zayn sinks lower in his seat, wondering if perhaps the couch can swallow him whole. 

Niall avoids glancing at Zayn completely as he sits down on Louis’ other side, smiling in a tight way that only Zayn seems to see right through. “I thought this was Liam’s stag do, not One Direction: The Reunion,” he says lightly. His cheeks are slightly flushed, blonde hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, and it hurts Zayn to look at him.

“It’s a night for all sorts of things,” says Louis. “Who knows, maybe Liam will end up asleep on a roof like Doug from _The Hangover._ ”

“Don’t jinx it!” Liam scolds, shoving at Louis’ side. “Soph would murder me if I showed up sunburned to our wedding.”

As Liam and Louis continue their bickering, Zayn’s eyes are automatically drawn back to where Niall is sitting. Except this time—this time, Niall turns his head, his eyes flicking to meet Zayn’s for what seem to be the longest few seconds of Zayn’s entire life.

Then Niall abruptly stands up, nearly knocking their table over in the process. “Going for a wee,” he explains hurriedly before stumbling off.

Harry watches him go, mouth opening and closing in surprise. “What was that about?” he asks, the question directed at Zayn.

Liam and Louis turn their attention to Zayn as well, who just sits there, thinking that maybe if he prays hard enough, he’ll evaporate into thin air. “How should I know?” he eventually mumbles.

“Zayn,” Liam says, his voice sympathetic.

_Fuck._ “I need some air,” Zayn rushes out, clambering up from the table and staggering away without looking back. He can feel all three of them staring after him as he goes, but doesn’t turn around. There’s no line outside the loo, and he pushes the door open with clammy palms and a racing heart.

Niall is hunched over the sink, and he looks up when Zayn walks in, their eyes catching in the mirror. Cold water drips down Niall’s neck from where he must have splashed it only moments before.

“What,” Niall says flatly.

“You can’t avoid me forever,” Zayn tells him.

Niall snorts and harshly rips a paper towel from the dispenser before using it to scrub his hands down. “Watch me.”

“Niall,” Zayn tries again. “Niall, please.”

“I know you’ve got the other lads fooled, but I’m not that easy. I’m not going to forgive you just like that.”

The light over the sink flickers. “I know,” Zayn says, quieter. “I’m not asking you to.”

The paper towel goes flying into the rubbish bin at Zayn’s side before Niall sighs. “Then what do you want?”

His blue eyes are dark, pupils dilated from the scant illumination of the room. It’s like he’s almost ethereal, just out of Zayn’s reach. 

“A chance,” Zayn finally answers. “A chance to make you trust me again. So we can at least be friends again, maybe. Don’t you want that?”

Niall stares at him, unblinking. He’s turned away from the sink so that he’s facing Zayn now, the two of them having a stand off right here in the toilets of Funky Buddha. Zayn stares back, never wavering, the liquid courage strong enough to keep him from cowering away.

“You make it sound simple,” Niall breathes out, at last. “It’s not that simple, Zayn.”

“I _know,_ ” Zayn huffs in frustration. “But we can’t keep doing this, Niall. I’m back. I’m here now, and I’d like for you to be a part of my life, if you’ll have me.”

Zayn’s not sure what kind of power those words possess, but it’s like the fight drains from Niall a moment later, leaving him susceptible and defenseless. He doesn’t scoff or shove Zayn or snap at him with sharp words—instead, he slumps forward, ducking his head and staring at his feet.

“I’m—afraid,” he admits quietly, after a few seconds have passed. “I’m afraid you’re going to leave again. You’ll say you won’t, but you did it before when none of us saw it coming. Who’s to say it won’t happen again?”

There’s defeat in Niall’s voice, and it wraps Zayn’s heart in a vice. “I can’t promise you anything, but for right now, I’m not going anywhere.” Zayn pauses, taking a small step forward. “I’m not going anywhere, Niall. I’m here, I’m staying.”

Niall hiccups out a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “I need another drink,” he says, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes for a moment to steady himself. A moment later, he looks up, this time with resolve. It’s like witnessing Niall transform into a different person altogether.

“Come get a drink with me, Zayn,” Niall says.

The floodgates in Zayn’s heart creak as they slowly open, and then the relief sweeps forth in a rush that’s so powerful, it’s dizzying. He nods and tries not to let the hope show on his face. “Alright.”

*

“What the fucking _fuck,_ how the fuck do you tie this thing—”

The door clicks softly shut behind Zayn, and he stands there for a beat to take in the scene in front of him. Liam is pacing by the window, all done up in his suit and furiously muttering to himself while Andy hovers at his side in a weak attempt to placate him. Louis is picking at Harry’s curls a few feet away, trying to smooth them into something at least _slightly_ contained. Then there’s Niall, standing in front of a mirror and fumbling with his bow tie. His fingers trip over themselves as he messes up the knot, and Zayn stifles a laugh into his sleeve when Niall curses, stomping his foot as the bowtie dangles loosely from his neck.

“I quit,” he shouts. Zayn takes that as his cue to make his presence known, crossing the room in a few short strides.

“Here, let me,” he says to Niall, grabbing onto his shoulders and turning him until they’re facing one another.

“When did you get here?” Niall demands, still a bit huffy.

“‘Bout a minute ago,” Zayn says, deftly tucking one end of the bowtie into the other until it rests just right against Niall’s collar. He pats Niall’s chest once gently after he finishes, then takes a step back. “Can’t believe you still don’t know how to tie those things.”

Niall shrugs, turning his attention to doing up the buttons on his shirtsleeves. “You always did it for me. Never had to worry about it.”

He says it casually, but his nonchalance is betrayed by the fact that he won’t look back up, not even once he’s done fiddling with his buttons. 

“Niall,” Zayn pleads softly.

A sigh. “It’s okay,” Niall murmurs. He lifts his head and gives Zayn a tiny smile. It’s hardly anything, but it’s nonetheless genuine, and Zayn smiles back.

“You look good,” Zayn tells him honestly. Niall flushes faintly. “How’s Liam?”

“Freaking out, obviously.” Niall rolls his eyes, sufficiently distracted. “Go calm him down, would you?”

“On it.” Zayn gives Niall a little salute, and then makes his way over to Liam. Andy shoots him a wide-eyed, grateful look as he approaches. 

“He’s completely lost it,” he mutters helplessly.

Zayn just nods. “Li,” he calls out. Liam’s steps falter for the briefest of seconds, but then he’s on the move again. “Liam, mate, are you breathing?”

“Possibly,” Liam says. He finally comes to a halt in front of Zayn and raises shaking hands to smooth down the front of his tux. “I’m getting married today,” he says. Stops. “I’m getting married today, oh my god.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Zayn reassures him, putting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Just take a step back. Inhale. Exhale. Now smile. Sophia loves you. It’s going to be perfect, alright?”

Liam shakes his head as if attempting to clear his mind. “I know, I know. It’s just—a lot, y’know? It’s a big change.”

The corner of Zayn’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah, it is. But it’s a good change, innit?”

Liam’s chest rises and falls as he breathes out, nodding. “Hope so.” He seems to pull himself together, then, straightening up and holding his head high before offering Zayn a small smile. “I’m happy you’re here.”

The words warm Zayn from the inside out. “Me, too,” he tells Liam.

At that, Louis appears out of nowhere, tugging at both Zayn and Liam’s sleeves and nodding towards the door. “Time to get this show on the road, lads!” he announces cheerfully, pulling them along. “Line up and find your lady, this wedding waits for no one!”

*

The ceremony is beautiful.

Zayn stands with the rest of the groomsmen, fitted between Niall and Harry off to the side as Liam dedicates himself to Sophia till death do them part and his family cries in the front row. Sophia looks beautiful, absolutely glowing in her white dress, and before Zayn knows it, they’ve been announced husband and wife and Liam is being told to kiss his bride.

The whole occasion feels symbolic in so many ways—it’s not just a change for Liam, but a change for all of them. Most of all, it’s a change for Zayn himself. He’s got himself put together and he’s right back where he belongs, with his four best mates. He’s alive; he’s making it through each day. He’s _happy._

At the reception, both of Liam’s sisters demand a dance with him, and then Harry is shoving cake into his face as Louis insists that they take over the dance floor for the macarena. Zayn laughs and embraces Liam as tightly as he can muster when they find each other in the crowd, congratulating him and Sophia and thanking them for letting him be a part of it all.

“You’re family, Zayn,” Sophia says, gently squeezing his hand. “To all of us.”

Zayn blinks rapidly, his eyes growing wet. “Yeah,” he says softly, smiling. “I s’pose I am.”

The festivities continue, and Zayn doesn’t come across Niall until later, just as the sun is beginning to go down and the tea lights strung through the trees in Liam’s backyard are being lit. Niall is over by a crop of flowers talking animatedly with Harry, but he pauses when he spots Zayn approaching, mouth tipping up slightly and head dipping acknowledgement.

“There you are!” Harry spins around. “Karen wants a picture. All five of us. You haven’t happened to see Louis, have you?”

They find Louis over by the makeshift bar on the patio, and then the four of them make a beeline for Liam and his parents, who are chatting next to the swimming pool.

“We’re ready for our close up,” Louis declares.

“More pictures?” Liam grumbles, and Karen _tuts_ at him, taking hold of his bicep and pushing him towards the rest of them.

“Just a few, Liam. Be a good sport now,” she scolds.

Liam glances sideways at Zayn and rolls his eyes. _Mums,_ he mouths. Zayn snickers.

“Alright, get in here, all of you, nice and close. There we go,” Louis directs, once the five of them are gathered together in a tight line. Liam’s in the middle, arms slung around Louis and Zayn on either side, while Harry slides in next to Louis and Niall takes his place at Zayn’s side. Zayn feels Liam squeeze his shoulder lightly, and then there’s a soft touch to Zayn’s waist. When he looks down, Niall’s got his hand anchored at Zayn’s hip. They make eye contact and Niall grins, honest and just for Zayn. It’s the best Zayn’s felt in months.

He’s home.

“On three now, boys,” Karen says from behind the photographer. “Big smiles, yeah? We’ve got to commemorate having you all back together. Gosh, it’s amazing how the time flies, isn’t it?”

The photographer is counting down. Zayn hauls Niall in closer and then curls further into Liam’s side, placing his tongue between his teeth and smiling wide for the camera. The flash erupts.

_Click._


End file.
